


And We Will All The Pleasures Prove

by SofterSoftest



Series: And I Will Make Thee Beds Of Roses [2]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Loss of Virginity, M/M, RIP to Martha Wayne's roses, Vers Boys, falling in love feels like resting in a bed of roses and no I still will not explain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:54:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28743570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SofterSoftest/pseuds/SofterSoftest
Summary: Months after a tense, heartfelt reunion in a GCPD interrogation room, Bruce follows through on a particular promise.
Relationships: Jerome Valeska/Bruce Wayne
Series: And I Will Make Thee Beds Of Roses [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2107308
Comments: 9
Kudos: 49





	And We Will All The Pleasures Prove

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Neyiea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neyiea/gifts).



> A sequel for my dear friend <3 (I couldn't write our boys talking about fucking in a bed of roses and then NOT write it okay???)

*

Tucked between a copse of tall maple trees, the bed is truly a sight to behold. 

It is a tall four-poster beast, heavy enough to dig holes into the earth at its feet. Linen bedclothes trail to the grass, white and smooth as sun-bleached stone. Plump pillows line the dark headboard. A gauzy canopy hangs above each corner, floating on the cool breeze.

It looks stolen from a fairytale, manifested from a dream. 

Which, Bruce supposes, with a secretive, impatient smile, is exactly what it is.

Although he had glanced at the time mere moments ago, he again checks the watch at his wrist, deciding on the finishing touches. He stokes the fire burning in a small pit nearby. He checks the weather forecast on his phone, just in case. He takes the small gardening scissors from his back pocket, heart hammering with excitement.

His mother’s prized roses encircle the clearing around the bed. There are feathery cabbage roses, pink as sunburn and sweet as honey. They fall into his palm easily, dripping petals between his fingers. Next, he clips the Eden roses, which climb a bordering stone wall, fitting several in his fist at once. They are white as the linens and so thickly petalled Bruce has to pluck them free.

Although his choices are innumerable, with the private garden having grown several hybrids without any sort of intervention, Bruce settles on one final rose to complete the trio of petals scattered across the bed. He settles on the largest red roses he can find, heads so heavy they droop to the ground. He examines the identification plaque stuck nearby, a little embarrassed to read the name - _Precious Time_. 

_Well_ , Bruce thinks, carefully snipping between thorns. _Hopefully they’ll set the mood._

When he is finished, the linens are nearly invisible, drowned as they are so thickly in silken petals. The early Autumn air is perfumed with them beneath the slight chill and the smoke from the fire. Stomach fluttering with anxiety and anticipation, Bruce paces in the dim, dappled sunlight. He checks and double checks each stashed secret. He paces the perimeter of their date, examining the grove for views of the bed he knew he would not find. 

Bruce had picked the setting very carefully, after all. 

He had trekked all throughout the Manor’s extensive private gardens to find the best spot, secluded from every angle, and far enough from the house itself that there was no chance of being spotted or overheard. The only thing that gave away his location at all would be the thin string of smoke floating through the trees.

Bruce checks his watch again, remembering the note he had handed Jerome on his way out very early that morning. 

_“Don’t read it until you’re gone,”_ Bruce had instructed, voice thick with sleep. _“And don’t come around early. You’ll ruin your surprise.”_

 _“A surprise, huh?”_ Jerome had purred, fingers already tapping on the thick envelope as if he couldn’t wait to rip it apart. _“You’re planning something for lil ol’ me? I dunno if my heart can handle that, Bruce. Are you trying to kill me after all?”_

He had backtracked from his regular spot at the window, even though one foot had already been on the rooftop. Bruce was peppered with playful, happy kisses, even to the odd parts of his face where he had never been kissed before - his chin, his eyelids, his ears. All became new, happy places for Jerome to dote upon.

 _“Not yet,”_ Bruce had teased, fond even through his exhaustion. _“Get out of here so you can read your note. Come find me later.”_

With the promise of a secret and a surprise invitation, Jerome was gone with only a few more lingering kisses, and then Bruce was alone to catch what little sleep he could before starting his day.

Bruce wishes he could have seen Jerome’s face upon opening the letter. Wishes he could have seen the curious grin that surely followed or the way he might have folded and preserved it someplace safe.

He stokes the fire again, watching the smoke trail into the grey sky, remembering what he had penned. **_Find me in the Manor gardens around 4. Follow the smoke. Seeya soon._ **

It was nearly 4 already, and everything was in place. Bruce checks himself over, hoping no thorns had snagged his outfit, as meticulously planned as the rest. He wears a cashmere sweater, cozy for the weather, maroon as the darkest roses. In an effort to appear a bit more dashing, he had skipped gelling his hair, letting it curl and wave however it may. Black trousers give way to black boots. He had forgone cologne, knowing the roses would be strong enough, even with the musk of smoke.

Everything is perfect as he planned it.

The fire crackles. The bed linens sway. Bruce fidgets with his hair and his clothes, feeling all the more silly for his nerves.

His watch ticks. 4PM comes dutifully, consistent as the sun.

Jerome arrives between the tunnelling edges of the thicket. Sunlight casts a slight shadow at his back, disappearing the moment he eases beneath the trees. He saunters towards Bruce with a speed that contradicts the cool smile on his face. 

“Oh baby,” Jerome coos, with all the same reverence as he had displayed during Bruce’s entrance to his interrogation room. He bypasses the gauzy bed of roses and the spitting fire to yank Bruce into his arms. “You didn’t.”

“I did. I wanted to - ” Jerome interrupts him with a tactless kiss, planting his lips right onto Bruce’s open mouth, onto his teeth.

It feels strange and thrilling to be kissing outside in broad daylight. Following Jerome’s escape from the GCPD, their reunions had only ever been for a couple of hours, and always in the dead of night. Always on one of the Manor’s many balconies beneath the stars, or in the study, or, rather lately, in Bruce’s bedroom. To be clutching Jerome’s heavy sweater in his sun-warmed fists and kissing his lips gone cold with wind feels nearly too good to be true.

“I did all this just for you,” Bruce murmurs, taking one of Jerome’s hands in his and leading him close to the fire. “I told you I’d make it happen.”

“You did,” Jerome agrees wistfully. His expression is slightly doe-eyed, as if he had never expected Bruce to follow through on something so precious and special. Not because of who Bruce is, as if he didn’t keep his promises, but because of Jerome. As if he didn’t deserve it or the effort required to create such a private and intimate space.

Bruce, remembering his stolen garden and his own bed of roses, knows the feeling.

While Jerome looks around, examining his stone-cobbled fire pit and the dense thickets of roses, Bruce reaches beneath the bed. He dips his hands into the cool darkness beneath the embroidered linen bedskirt until they brush smooth wicker. When he draws them out he is cradling an old picnic basket, like a magician after a magic trick. ( _Like Jerome before an attempted murder,_ Bruce thinks, remembering high stage lights and a knife at his throat.) Alfred had told him the basket had belonged to his parents before they were married, when luncheon picnics in the sun were one of their favorite dates to share. The hardware is dull with age and the handles creak when he holds them and there are slight scratches in the sides from use. For a date so important, Bruce prefers the very best - the most beautiful, private atmosphere, the softest linens, his mother’s finest roses. Even the champagne he withdraws from the basket is the oldest and most expensive in his cellar. Even the wood crackling in the pit was chosen specifically for its scent when burning, a young and heady pine. In most cases, he prefers the best. Yet the basket, with all its imperfections, held the sentiment he felt so overwhelmingly towards the man before him stooping to toss dead leaves into the fire.

From the basket, Bruce withdraws a heavy charcuterie board wrapped in cloth, and sets two champagne flutes on a small plate with a clink. Only once he pops the cork on the champagne does Jerome turn. For once, he seems speechless, his face full of muted, happy surprise. The moment passes as Jerome grins, still a little jagged at the edges, as if smiling for the sake of it instead of to threaten, unnerve, or put on a show is still a gesture that faintly eludes him.

“Wow, Brucie, you really know how to make a girl feel special.” He saunters over, taking the bottle from Bruce’s hands, and steals a swig before starting to pour. “All this decadence really has me wondering… Are you _proposing_?”

It’s said in an obviously joking manner, hushed and exaggerated like sharing a secret, and still Bruce sputters and blushes and, for all his charm, cannot fathom a way to play it off. 

“Jeez, the look on you!” Jerome cackles. “Don’t worry, honey, I know I’m not quite… how do they put it? _Marriage_ material.”

“Jerome,” Bruce says, still scrambling for something, anything to say. He cannot think of a way to play along, to escalate or disagree tactfully. It is as if the word _marriage_ involving Jerome had fried his mind so forcefully he did not know how to respond, so condensed was he with warring desire and the fear that comes with fresh, budding love.

Jerome shoves a full flute of drink into his hand and offers his glass in cheers. “Here. To _not_ proposing.”

Bruce, always so serious, makes up his mind.

“Someday I will,” he disagrees softly. “If you’ll let me.”

He clinks their glasses to that and the grin that spreads on Jerome’s face even as he rolls his eyes is a prize all its own. Bruce takes a small sip while Jerome downs his drink instantly, only ever used to taking shots that are far too strong to sip slow.

“Bruce Wayne,” Jerome murmurs, scandalized and fond. He wraps an arm around Bruce’s shoulders, pulling him close until they stand chest to chest, their hips flush. Jerome kisses him gently on the forehead. “You really think I’d let you propose?”

“I’ll beat you to it,” Bruce promises with a laugh and there, finally, is his humor. His hard-won winning streak. His competition and skill, so evenly matched with Jerome’s. 

“If I let you,” Jerome echoes. Bruce pulls away with another soft laugh and climbs onto the bed amidst the clutter of rose petals. He holds his champagne carefully as he kicks off his shoes before tugging the cloth from the charcuterie board. 

A large display of foods has been arranged atop a long wooden tray. Alfred had sent him out with the very best and far more than they could ever eat. Loaves of french bread border mounds of pomegranates dripping seeds. Various cubed cheeses are dispersed throughout the plate, giving way to grapes and cherry tomatoes and cucumber slices. There are almonds and sprigs of herbs and, towards the very center, crumbling chunks of fine chocolate. The longer he looks, the more he sees, and Bruce’s gratitude towards Alfred’s planning gradually warps to astonishment at the sheer volume of finger foods available to them.

“The butler really went all out,” Jerome says, reaching out to pop an olive into his mouth as he joins Bruce on the bed.

“You’re right,” Bruce says, not bothering to keep the awe from his voice. He finds a small silver fork from the pile and begins to pick over the fruit. “I bet this took him forever.”

Over the course of their little feast, Jerome regularly makes Bruce laugh so hard he cannot breathe. He begins by exaggerating the way he eats his food, using both hands to raise a single strawberry, pinkies out with a faux-snooty expression on his face. _“I expected the food to be plated with edible gold, Bruce. Honestly, I’m disappointed. I know I already professed my love to you, but this has me reconsidering…”_

It helps to ease the remaining nervous tension Bruce had been feeling all day, stressing to make sure every detail was perfect as a painting. 

Only when Jerome starts to eat in earnest is Bruce distracted, feeling his mind run in familiar, worrying ruts. He wonders about Jerome’s hidey holes in Gotham ( _“All over the place,”_ he had said once Bruce had asked. _“And nowhere near good enough for you.”_ ) He wonders how often Jerome is eating or sleeping or caring for himself in the dozens of other small and gracious ways he should.

These thoughts begin to stack and by the time Bruce notices he is lost in them, he is immediately feverish with distraction. There is a moment where Jerome leans forward to spear a tiny ball of mozzarella and his shirt (black and soft and surely something he had taken from Bruce’s closet) dips with him. Just a slight shifting of his collar and suddenly there is a livid violet bruise, surrounded by pinpricks of teeth marks right on the side of his throat. 

Seeing it makes Bruce feel hot even in the cool weather. He remembers that bite in particular because he had been uncharacteristically brutal, so caught up in Jerome and his teasing. All night, he had been winding Bruce up with small touches which had escalated to a boiling point and he had finally broken, nearly mauling Jerome as he taunted him. _“Look at you, wanting me so badly you’re fuming. I like making you mad, Brucie. You’re so pretty when you’re mad, aren’t you? Aren’t - ”_

He had taken Jerome down, flat on his bedroom floor, and shown him exactly what he could do with that filthy, infuriating mouth. But only after winding him up just as badly, kissing him over and over and over, every place he could reach. As revenge. As punishment. As means to an end.

Very slowly so as not to be noticed, Bruce reaches behind Jerome to press two fingers firmly against the mark. Jerome jolts, nearly spitting the grape from his mouth, and a fierce shudder races throughout his body. 

“Admiring your work, huh?” he hisses, a little breathless. At Bruce’s answering nod, he continues. “If I’m not mistaken, we should be matching… _here_.”

Jerome strikes so quickly Bruce misses it, jabbing a spot on his ribcage which sported a similar blotch of mottled skin and love bites. Internally, he wants to come up with a clever response or open a chance to press on Jerome’s marks again, yet all Bruce does instead is catch his retreating hand and yank him forward until their mouths crash together.

Kissing this way - fierce with past hatred and fear, sweet with current heartsickness - is always enough to make Bruce swoon. It is as if something in his mind goes dark, goes blank, goes useless. He reacts on want and instinct alone, tuning into Jerome with an understanding specific to only him.

Over the months they have been together, meeting in nighttime trysts, Bruce has learned in precise detail how Jerome prefers to be touched. Rough, harsh, violet. Then, after everything, a hint of genuine tenderness to crack him open.

“I made our bed of roses,” Bruce says, clawing at Jerome’s shirt until he has shoved it over his head. 

“You did,” Jerome says, reverent as ever. Reverent as the first moment Bruce had ever kissed him, as the first note he ever left behind, as the moment, long ago in a strewn diner, he had said, _“No one’s ever helped me before. Ever.”_

They kiss. The world falls away.

Clothes tumble to the ground at every end of the bed, dappled with sunlight. Naked, they roll in the mess of rose petals together, laughing between kisses and soft moans. There is a moment of pause where Bruce, knelt atop Jerome and positioned just-so, looks him over. Jerome gazes up at him with an attention that has never wavered since the instant they met. His scarred face is relaxed, flushed with wanting, lips swollen and parted. His freckled chest heaves. His dark eyes are molten with adoration and longing. Crumpled red petals border him like a backdrop. Bruce’s heart, already so full, clenches at the sight.

“I’m ready,” he says into the hush of their private grove. He’s sure Jerome had already gotten the hint loud and clear, and when he glances to his face, he finds an eager, happy grin. His calloused hands smoothe over Bruce’s body, up his thighs, his hips, his chest, his throat.

“Don’t worry about a thing. I'll show you how it’s done, baby,” Jerome promises with the same honesty he has displayed during every conversation about Bruce’s first time. “Me first. And if you don't think you'd like it after that, well, we've got plenty of time.”

At that, Bruce snorts. He claps his hands over Jerome’s still petting his thighs. “As if I could ever dislike your body. I’m plenty ready. I’m _past_ ready.”

“Then this is how it goes.” Jerome reaches behind the pillows, withdrawing a bottle of lube Bruce had stashed there in secret.

“How did you know that was there?” He demands.

Jerome winks, as annoying as it is charming. “Intuition. You’re not always the clever one here, Brucie.”

Bruce huffs with mock offense while Jerome uncaps the bottle, dribbles a generous amount into his hands, and rubs them together to warm it up. He reaches for Bruce first, gripping his cock with both hands, stroking him slow and steady. Goosebumps race in familiar thrills up his body. Jerome’s touch, when not held back to drive him crazy, always frenzies him in other ways - makes him think of paradise and poetry and the very best of the sentiment between them.

“Your turn Bruce. Slick up your fingers. Stretch me open like I taught you.”

It’s hard with his mind so foggy with pleasure, especially accompanying the sight of Jerome spreading his legs to enthrall him - eyes skimming the valley of his hips, the lattice of his ribs, his handsome face staring with reflected impatience and desire and love - it is almost too much. But Bruce keeps his head and begins to work Jerome over, just like he taught him.

“Just like that,” Jerome groans. “Another finger now, Bruce. You know how I like the sting…”

He does as he’s instructed. With only small preparation, he’s lining himself up at Jerome’s entrance, looking straight into his eyes with all the devotion he can muster, and sinking slowly into him. Jerome hisses against his throat, fingers digging into Bruce’s back.

It is at this point that Bruce truly loses his head. His thoughts blank to pure emptiness. He barely comprehends Jerome’s encouragement beneath him, feeling only the rough timbre of his voice buzzing between them and the jerking collapse and catch of his breathing. Jerome’s palms at the sides of his ribs feel intimate beyond description. 

His heart pounds. Their bodies connect, part, connect. It is the thought of Jerome sinking into him in the very same way that finally pushes Bruce over the edge, a cyclical crest of pleasure spiraling in his gut until he finally pants into Jerome’s open mouth, “I’m gonna - Jerome, _god_ -” and shudders through his climax.

“Perfect,” Jerome murmurs into his hair. “My perfect, perfect boy.”

“Now me,” Bruce insists, even as his thoughts still stutter half-formed. He slumps to Jerome’s side, face pressed to the linens as he catches his breath. Fingers run through his damp curls affectionately. Jerome’s voice is gruff, his face pink as dawn.

“You sure?” 

“Now. Me.” Without another word, Bruce takes the bottle of lube in his weak fingers, drips some into his palm, and begins to pump Jerome who squirms, still achingly hard. The post-orgasmic relaxation makes easy work of preparing Bruce, even by Jerome’s high standards.

“Want you to be good and ready,” he says, crooking three fingers into Bruce, whose eyes are fluttering with rapture. “Want you feeling only the best this time around. Sometime else I can hurt you in all the finest ways, but today, darlin’,” his fingers brush Bruce’s prostate and the electric pleasure of it makes him gasp like a punch to the gut. “Today is sweet.”

Taking Jerome inside him feels like nothing Bruce could have ever expected. The act alone - Jerome’s cock stretching him, spearing him, uniting them so undeniably - feels unspeakably sacred. Jerome towers above him, backlit by sunset and radiating heat. Bruce’s whole heart splits right down the middle, leaking into his every extremity until he is so full of love he could burst. Tears bud in his eyes from sheer emotional upheaval as they begin to rock together.

 _How could you do this to me?_ Bruce finds himself thinking in astonishment, over and over as the minutes pass. _Has this love always been inside me? Always waiting for you to come along?_

Jerome kisses each tear, his cheeks, his nose, his hairline. “You look so beautiful. Like a dream. Like everything I ever - hoped - ”

He comes with a ragged gasp, Bruce’s name half-formed in his throat. They collapse side by side against each crumpled petal.

In the following stillness, Bruce is so content it feels nearly holy.

“Tell me something, brat of my dreams,” Jerome mutters eventually as their breathing settles. “You had to have help with set-up. How did you explain all this to your dear old butler?”

Bruce blushes so suddenly and intensely, he wonders if Jerome can feel it. “I told Alfred I had a date with Selina…”

“ _You didn’t!_ ” Jerome wheezes through his wild, trilling laughter. “I bet that nearly killed him!”

Bruce shrugs, coy and teasing. “Anything to get my mind off of _you_ and our _encounter_ at the GCPD. I think he was relieved.”

“I can see his face now. Did he look like he just sucked on a lemon?”

“Basically.”

“And what’s he going to do when you get back? Break out the whiskey?”

“Who knows,” Bruce says, not particularly wanting to think about Alfred and the assumptions he would make. “Either way, he’s going to trek out here to tidy these things up.”

Jerome knocks lazily on a post, checking its density. “Really? This thing is sturdy. What are you gonna do with it? Drag it all the way back?”

Bruce scoffs, half-serious. “I was thinking of burning it.”

Only after he says it does he realize that Jerome would see the gesture as romantic. Their bed, unable to be tarnished by anyone else, set ablaze by their hands. A testament to their day, gone up in smoke.

This thought is immediately confirmed by Jerome who jolts to a sitting position to stare Bruce in the face. “We’re doing that.”

“We’re doing that,” Bruce agrees through an easy laugh. He reaches for Jerome, threading his fingers through his hair, gazing up at him, haloed by sunset. “Just give me a few more minutes of this. Then we can torch it.”

“Anything for you, Bruce,” Jerome murmurs softly. He turns his head to kiss Bruce’s open palm. 

_Just a few more minutes,_ Bruce thinks, eyes closing as Jerome drags a petal softly down his cheek. _Just a few more hours. Just a dozen years. Just a lifetime…_

They tangle in their bed of roses as the sunset dips - 

and rise, together, to nightfall spitting stars.

*


End file.
